


The Spirit of the Place

by athena_crikey



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Magical Realism, Drama, Fantasy AU, Gen, Oxford, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-09 16:54:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8900329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: Thursday knew exactly how it felt to be hamstrung by fraud and vice, and although it felt as though coppering were in his blood, the city truly ran through this lad’s veins.





	1. Cowley Station Basement

Outside snow was falling in a gentle, silent curtain. White flakes stuck to Oxford’s dark domed roofs and reaching spires, coating them until they shone dully in the grey light. The snow brought beauty even to Cowley’s brick buildings and iron railings, and to the motor pool below Thursday’s window. 

Snow streaked down the window’s ancient pane, the sash jammed shut with a twisted handkerchief to keep from rattling with the winter storms. Inside it was scarcely warmer; the boiler had never been a font of reliability and in this most recent cold snap had threatened to give up the ghost entirely. The men in uniform felt the cold less in their thick woollen tunics; the plainclothes officers layered up and drank gallons of hot tea. Thursday sat in his frigid office and smoked, occasionally removing his pipe to cherish the bowl in both hands. 

On his blotter lay the report on the most recent arson to light up the cold Oxford night sky; outside his office sat its author, DS Lott. Both the report and the man were silent on the potential connection to Cowley’s underground, the shadow figures that manipulated officers, judges and magistrates like puppets. Thursday frowned, shuffling the papers with a tired kind of disinterest. Men were dying in the city and their deaths were being swept, like ashes, under the rug. 

He was tired. Tired of subterfuge and politics, of watching his back in his own nick and the itching feeling between his shoulder blades his own bagman caused in him. Irritated, and further irked by the irritation, Thursday stood and stretched. Time for a walk; time to cool his head. He sighed, gave the radiator a vague kick, and headed for the door. Layers of corruption thick as the grime on the canteen tea urn were beyond his means; investigating the boiler wasn’t. 

DS Lott glanced up at him as he ventured out; he waved the man’s curiosity away and beat a path to the back stairs. Followed them down, past the canteen and the lock-up, to the stairs down to where he knew the entrance to the basement to be, despite never having visited it in his decade in Oxford. 

The basement had been used for the station’s cast-offs as long as there had been coppers in Cowley nick. It held the inevitable boxes of rubbish the station house collected: battered furniture, dusty paintings, the contents of desks abandoned by retiring or relocating officers. The walls were bare brick, the stairs creaking wood that Thursday eyed closely for signs of woodworm as he descended in the long strip of light that flowed down from the open doorway above. At the bottom of the stairs he found the light switch and pressed it. 

Bare bulbs whispered to life, their buzz growing silent as the filaments heated and they poured down sulphurous light. The basement was a wide rectangular space with furniture stacked in a semblance of neatness along one wall, a few items floating out towards the centre of the floor in an uneven tide. In the far corner stood the boiler in its hulking might, ominously quiet. 

Thursday stepped down from the stairs onto the bare cement floor; he could feel the cold seeping into the space through the naked walls. There was a smell of disuse, of dust and metal and varnish. Thursday’s heels clicked as he crossed the floor towards the boiler, his shadow growing and shrinking wildly under the sparse overhead lights. 

He crossed half the space and then stopped, faltering as he stared into the corner beside the boiler, just come into view around the corner of the cast-off furniture. 

On the dusty cement cardboard boxes had been flattened to lie in an untidy pile. Curled on them like a dog was a young man in a crumpled suit, his skin pale and his eyes closed. 

“What in the – who the hell are you?” Thursday found his momentum and surged forward towards the sleeping figure – he surely couldn’t be dead – his heart beginning to beat wildly in his chest. A body in the basement of the nick? It was far too Alice in Wonderland, even for Oxford.

As Thursday watched though the man’s eyes slid open – blue as the winter sky, and just as sharp – and he pulled himself up with a scraping sound of cardboard against cement. His cool, disaffected gaze swept over Thursday, and he raised a hand to comb out his hair. It was red-gold, limp, and with a hint of unruly curl to it. 

“You can call me Remorse,” he said, in a sullen tone. “And you are?”

“The beginning of your troubles,” returned Thursday evenly, heartbeat slowing to a more measured pace. “Up you come and tell me what you were doing down here. Didn’t fancy sleeping rough? You’ve got a hell of a cheek, lazing about in the station basement.”

Remorse looked up at him with a patent lack of amusement, remaining seated on the flattened cardboard. “I stay where I’m put; that’s my lot. If you want me for something, you’re going about it the wrong way.” 

Thursday took a step closer, intending to collar the lad and pull him up. Instead he got a flash of scent strong as driving rain to the face: leather books and chalk dust and motor oil. A _naevus_ , bold as brass and uncompromising as steel. Thursday fell back, reaching instinctively for the lightning rod at his side, its weight suddenly reassuring against his frame. 

“What are you?” he demanded. In an instant he had drawn the rod, snapping it forwards so that it unfolded to its full yard-long reach, and pressed the end to the man – the _thing’s_ – chest. It remained reassuringly solid against the touch of pure iron, but there was no twitch at all, not even the rise and fall of its chest. No breath: no heartbeat. 

The register of the unliving was a long one, but not so the listing of those who would willingly stay in a police nick. Thursday stared down the young man, who looked fiercely back without moving, trapped beneath the iron bane. He seemed completely unafraid, unfazed by the rod and Thursday’s advantage. 

When he spoke it was slowly, with a wry twist to the words. “I am older than stone, stronger than steel, steadier than the river, yet servant to thee. Tell me my name, inspector – if you can.” 

Thursday moved the tip of the rod up from its position over the young man’s heart to skirt its drab necktie. As the rod slipped higher there was a spark of light; Thursday and the lad pulled away at the same time. Like the fading glow of a spark on a carpet, Thursday saw the outline of a transparent collar twisted about the young man’s neck. Thicker than leather, it sat tight against pale skin just above the limp cotton of his collar. 

He had seen such collars before – on a middle-aged man with weather-beaten skin and muscles like a navvy in Mile End; on a woman in a fashionable suit with her head girt by a bandage in the Met not long after he demobbed. 

Thursday looked from his lightning rod, now hovering aimlessly, to the young man sitting impatiently on the flattened boxes, looking for all the world like a young constable who had just been assigned a disagreeable task. 

“You’re a genius locus,” said Thursday slowly, licking his suddenly-dry lips. 

“And you’re a police inspector,” returned the spirit dryly, unimpressed by his deduction. 

“Fred Thursday. DI.” He collapsed the rod with another quick snap and slipped it back into its holster at his hip. More slowly, he turned and glanced over the sprawling collection of furniture before selecting a battered wooden chair and drawing it closer. He sat down on it to be closer to eye-level with the spirit that called itself Remorse. “What are you doing down here?” 

Genii loci were rare, but well known all the same. There was one in every city, although not all had been harnessed – some still hid alone and unknown in their homes, untouched and untamed by man. Those who had been harnessed – collared, sometimes worse – worked now for civic institutions lending their skill and their knowledge for the betterment of their homes. Often, the police.

Remorse glanced upwards, eyes bright in the basement’s uneven lighting. “I told you: I’m not well-liked upstairs.”

“You’re not _known_ upstairs.”

The spirit shrugged. “It was some time ago. Once burned…”

“I’ve been here ten years, and I’ve never heard about you.”

“Then it must have been longer,” said Remorse, simply. “Time is stone weathering, trees growing and fruiting, rivers running. Not hours and minutes and seconds.” He sounded disinterested, resigned. He leant back against the wall behind him, and as Thursday watched him he was mesmerized by the fact of his chest failing to rise and fall. The inspector took a pull of his pipe and scrutinized the young man more closely.

He was young but out of the first flush of youth – perhaps nearer to thirty than twenty, with a lean face and a narrow frame. His suit was dark blue and of a cheap material – a ready-to-wear job with no glimpse of good tailoring. His hands, Thursday noticed, were soft and delicate – no trace of the workman in him. But hardly much hint of academe either; his face was clean-cut and bony but without any trace of high breeding, his cuff without the tell-tale chalk powder. A puzzle, Thursday summarized, looking again at the spirit’s curious sky-blue eyes. They were the only thing about him that suggested the extraordinary. 

“What did you do? To kick up such a ruckus?” Thursday enquired, crossing his legs loosely. Genii loci weren’t always soft-spoken, tame things, but they rarely risked confrontation with those who held power over them. They had no bloodlust, no thirst for violence, and as far as Thursday knew most preferred to kneel before authority rather than rail. 

Remorse gave him a heavy-lidded stare, canting his head to the side like a young crow. “I spoke the truth,” he said, voice pitched low. “Apparently that’s become _vieux jeux_.” 

“What was the truth?” enquired Thursday, curiosity piqued. 

“That half the station was receiving bribes, and most of the other half knew of it.” His eyes were cold and flinty. 

Thursday took in a long, slow breath, letting it out wreathed in smoke. “Not much’s changed, then.”

Remorse raised his eyebrows in a show of cynical exasperation. “How could it?”

“Doesn’t mean there’s not crime to be stopped, mysteries to be solved. The vulnerable to be protected. The work of the job goes on.” He felt as though he were speaking as much to himself as to the spirit. As though he were the one in need of convincing. 

“‘The vulnerable to protect’? I was locked down here for seeking to protect the vulnerable. They _bridled_ me first,” he added, and for the first time Thursday saw real rage in his face, eyes crinkled and cheeks aglow with ichor. “When that failed to shut me up, they decided I was of no more use to them.” He gestured with a caustic hand to the cold, dusty basement around. “ _This_ is my Oxford, now. My city is _burning_ and I can’t save it.” His face was reddening now, mussed hair standing on end, electrified by his anger. 

Thursday frowned. “How do you know about the fires?”

“How do I know when the winter frosts kill the saplings, or the bells of Magdalen ring on May Day, or the chestnuts ripen to rain down on the cobblestones? I _know_.” 

Thursday looked at the lad, all bright fury and resentment, and thought he probably did know. It was a genius locus’ business to know his home – and to keep it safe. 

Keep it safe? Locked in the bottom of Cowley nick like a rat? Imprisoned by greed and corruption? Thursday knew exactly how it felt to be hamstrung by fraud and vice, and although it felt as though coppering were in his blood, the city truly ran through this lad’s veins. 

Thursday took his pipe and knocked the remaining embers out against his heel. “What if you could stop the fires?” he asked, in a hard tone. “Would you?”

“I may bear grudges against men. Not my home,” replied the spirit, crossing his arms over his thin chest. 

“If you agree to serve under me, to take my orders and stay in the nick, I’ll get you out of this basement. At least that way you can make a difference.”

“I don’t incite violence, and I don’t kill,” said Remorse, eyes very hard as he stared back at Thursday. “Ever. Agreed?”

Thursday put out his hand. “Agreed.”

Remorse gave him a crooked smile, the smile of a man laughing at his own joke, and took Thursday’s hand. For an instant the basement disappeared and Thursday was standing on the roof of one of All Soul’s towering spires, looking out at the Radcliffe and the Bodleian, and beyond them Brassnose and Exeter. Beyond them the city stretched out into rows of roofs covered with snow; the river Thames ran smooth and sure, and past it open fields were fresh and white. There was the smell of winter frost, and chimney smoke and green wood. The lad’s _naevus_ again, strong as a kick to the stomach. 

Then the vision disappeared as quickly as it had come, and Thursday was back in the basement of Cowley Station, smelling of cold and dust and boiler. The room felt claustrophobically small snow; tiny and dark and oppressive. 

Thursday took back his hand, frigid as though it had been outside, and had to make an effort to keep from pressing it with his warmer one. “I’ll get you out of here,” he said. “Promise.” 

Crisp was the obvious way to go about it. Present his case, plead for the spirit’s release. Most nicks would be over the moon at the prospect of an officer who could and would work 24/7 without pay – never mind overtime – and who brought with them eldritch knowledge of their patch. 

But Crisp pulled his punches. He didn’t go after sure-fire cases with the spirit and fury proper to a DCS, but with hesitancy and reluctance. And information shared with him had a habit of making its way into the hands of the council for the defence. 

For a long time now, Thursday had had his doubts about Crisp. He had joined the Oxford Police after Thursday, which meant it hadn’t been him who had bridled the spirit. But quite possibly he wouldn’t be open to letting him out, either. 

Which meant this operation would be strictly need-to-know. 

“Where’s your tether?” he asked the lad, standing to look around the basement. Remorse leant to the side and raised a long-boned hand to indicate a round golden coin nailed into the wall behind him. The nail was half as long as Thursday’s arm, and from the look of it pure iron. 

Thursday stepped over to the coin, put his hand on the nail and pulled. It didn’t budge. 

“Alright then. Wait a minute; I’ll be back.”

It took him twenty minutes searching the supply rooms of the station until he found a proper hammer. He returned to the basement to find the lad sitting on his cardboard carpet again, arms crossed. He stood when Thursday came down the stairs, eyes glinting. “You came back.”

“Course I did. Promised, didn’t I?” He stepped up beside Remorse and slipped the hammer’s teeth around the nail; leant the head against the wall and gave the handle a sharp yank. The nail slid out like a fish from water, and the coin fell onto the floor with a jingle. 

“Right then.” He picked up the coin, and the nail. “You’d best come with me. For the time being taking you under my wing. Detective Constable, from… Carshall Newtown, let’s say. We’ve some lads with us at the moment on attachment to help keep us in order while we investigate these fires. That’ll do for you; at least you look the part.”

Remorse shrugged, uninterested in the lie. 

Thursday pocketed the nail and coin, continuing. “As for your name, Remorse is a bit unlikely. Let’s make it plain Morse, shall we?”

“As you like,” said the spirit diffidently. “It’s only a name.”

“Well it’s yours now, so mind you remember it.” Thursday looked over to the stairs. “Ready to go on up?”

“Yes,” said Morse. And his eyes gleamed.


	2. The Incident Room

The first place Thursday took him was the outer office, half-workspace, half-incident room folded together into a kind of living chaos. Desks were scattered about, half occupied at the moment and the other half empty. Phones rang on their hooks, typewriters clattered, someone whistled off-tune under his breath. The room stank of coffee grounds and cigarettes and sweat. 

Sometime since Thursday’s trip downstairs Lott had vanished, which was just as well. 

Behind him, Morse navigated through the disarray as though he could have done it blindfolded, effortlessly avoiding the slippery patch on the linoleum and the uneven step up into Thursday’s office. Once there he crossed straight over to the window and stood with his hands pressed against the glass, for all the world like a child on an outing. 

His first time above ground in more than a decade, thought Thursday, and swallowed hard. 

Outside the snow was still drifting down, the world cast in hues of grey and white, the shadows in tones of blue. “I’ve missed this,” said Morse without moving, staring out at the motor pool and the back of a brick warehouse behind as if to soak in a beauty only he could see. Beyond it, the spires of Oxford stretched tall to the sky, pale and faded in the snow. “Sometimes I almost forgot how much,” he finished, softly. 

Only softheaded fools pitied spirits, but something about the yearning in the lad’s voice stirred Thursday’s heart all the same. 

“It’s yours by rights; even a lead and collar can’t take it from you,” said Thursday in a low voice, looking past Morse’s shoulder at the skyline. 

Morse answered without turning, breath misting the window as he spoke. “Mine? No. I’m hers, for as long as the foundations stand. A millennium, so far. From a river crossing to the greatest university in the world; we’ve come a long way together. You think men can keep us apart?” He turned, eyes shining with a fey lightning-light, fingers tightening into fists.

“I think men are long on intolerance but short on compassion when it comes to those different from themselves.” Morse’s tether felt suddenly heavy in his pocket, weighing him down. Man had discovered spirits centuries ago; first they had feared them, then they had enslaved them. 

“And you’re better than that?”

Thursday dug out the golden coin and held it up, watched as Morse’s eyes flew to it. “Never claimed to be. I’d like to think I’ll do right by you, but the truth of it is right can be two different things to two people.”

Morse inclined his head in silent agreement, some of the wildness fading from his eyes. 

“If I leave this here, how far will you be able to go?” Thursday asked.

Morse’s eyes flickered from the coin to Thursday, but when he spoke it was in a flat, tired tone. “The whole of this floor. Not up or down.”

“Then we’ll start with that. For now.”

Morse stiffened, a hint of anxiety creeping into his gaze. “For now?”

“Do right by me, lad, and I’ll do right by you,” said Thursday evenly, as though speaking to a skittish child. “Other cities don’t keep their genii loci on such tight leashes. No reason to do so for you, if you’re reasonable.”

“And who defines reasonable?” asked Morse pointedly, crossing his arms over his thin chest. His hands were damp with condensation from the window; his fingers left dark marks on the cheap material of the suit. 

“From here on out you’re my responsibility, on my say-so.”

“So you’re making yourself master and commander both?” 

“Lad, I’m the only one in this nick I trust. Who you trust is up to you. But I’ll tell you this: if I thought I could have gotten approval to bring you up, I would have asked it. If you want to go over my head, so be it, but if you do I can’t protect you. As long as you’re my secret, I’ll not see you thrown back downstairs like a dog. Not for anything. Good enough?”

“For now,” echoed Morse, and turned to look at the files on the desk. “What is it you want me to do?”

\---------------------------------------------------

“Fires,” began Thursday, seated now at his desk with Morse in the chair opposite him. The spirit was fiddling with the blunt carving on the edge of the chair arm, looking for all the world more interested in the furniture than the cases, but when he glanced up at Thursday’s pause his eyes were crystal-sharp. 

“Three so far,” the inspector continued, laying out the separate files beside each other on the surface of his desk. “One victim each, on first glance each fire appeared to be started by that victim. Douglas Eccles,” he flipped open the first manila folder and raised the photograph of the middle-aged, portly man inside. “Found dead in his armchair in front of the telly; heavy smoker, most of the fire damage in and around his chair.”

Morse nodded, and Thursday closed that file and opened the second. “Thomas Belmont. Also a heavy smoker, found dead in his burnt-out bed.” He lifted the photograph: an older man with scant hair and over-grown eyebrows giving a gap-toothed smile around a dog-end cigarette. 

“And finally,” Thursday shut Belmont’s file and opened the last, fishing out the photograph, “Harry Thurslow. Died in a fire that started in his kitchen over the cooker; chip-pan oil is what it looks like.” The picture was of a man in his forties, with burst veins in his cheeks and a nose that had been broken more than once. “Do you know anything about them?”

Morse looked up again, surprise washing over his face and leaving it open and unguarded. “That’s not my wheelhouse.” He stood and stepped over to a map of Oxford pinned to Thursday’s wall, a lithe figure against the stained paper and the cracking plaster below. He raised a finger to the map and indicated a spot just east of the GMC factory. “Here.” He moved his hand and pointed to another location, at the intersection of St Clement’s and Morrel. “Here. And…” A third position, this on Divinity road, “Here.”

All three locations in Cowley; all three the sites of the recent fires. Thursday didn’t have to check the files to confirm it, he had the locations memorized. They were indicated by tacks on the larger map out in the main office. “If you take me there, I’ll tell you what I can find out. The city speaks to me, not her dead. Nor her living,” he added, hand absently lowering to trace the invisible collar encircling his neck. 

“In due time,” answered Thursday, leaning back until he could feel the cool draught from the window on the back of his neck like a warning: don’t take on hopeless cases. “For now, I want you to work here. You said you’ve worked with coppers before; should be easy to pick it up again. I want you to go through these files and see what you think of them. Check the file room if you fancy – you know where that is?”

Morse nodded. 

“Good. There’s a free desk outside in the corner, you can take that. I’ll speak to my sergeant – DS Lott – and see that you’re only assigned duties on this floor. For now he’s your superior, so try to mind him.”

Morse stayed standing in the corner, watching him. Thursday raised his eyebrows questioningly. “Yes?”

“The tether.” He dropped the words into the silence like spent cartridges.

Thursday slipped his hand into his pocket and produced it. He pulled out his desk drawer with a wooden whisper, dropped it in, closed the drawer and locked it. The key he pocketed. “Right?”

Morse sighed. “Alright.”

Thursday scooped up the files and handed them over. Then he took Morse to the door and escorted him over the threshold, pointing out the empty desk.

The lad walked quietly over the red lino floor to his new quarters, for all the world a DC on his first assignment, files held precariously to his chest. On Thursday’s other side Lott appeared, clearing his throat. His eyes too were on the spirit, narrowed in sour curiosity. 

“New man from Carshall,” said Thursday, looking to his DS. “He’s to be kept to this floor for now; I want to keep an eye on him.”

“Right sir,” said Lott, for all the world as though he had not just formed an instantaneous grudge against the young man – Thursday knew the effect of his words well enough. It couldn’t be helped. In Lott’s eyes no young man deserved attention, unless he earned it by putting his foot in it. 

“Any progress?” asked Thursday, turning back to his office; Lott followed.

\--------------------------------------------------------

The sun had set hours ago, no real sunset in the snowstorm, only a gradual darkening of the grey clouds. Thursday finished the chits he was signing off on and looked up at his clock; getting on for seven. Outside the outer office had gone quiet and still as an empty church waiting for its vicar to lock it up. 

Thursday stepped out of his office and found the outer room in its own unique windowless twilight. The ceiling lights had been turned off; a long strip of light flooded in from the doorway to the hall, another from his own office door. A third smaller circle of buttery light was settled over the corner where Morse was sitting with his back to the room, bent over the desk he had been leant. He sat up straight as Thursday’s footsteps approached, but didn’t turn.

“What is it you want to know about this case?” he asked, closing the file he was reading and standing. Slow as a weather vane swivelling in a gentle breeze he turned, face now in shadow. In the darkness the collar around his neck gleamed faintly, visible only out of the light. Mirror magic, a simple way to distort reality. Coppers liked it; it was an easy way to turn a suspect’s power against them.

Thursday stopped, frowning. “I want to know the truth of it.”

“The truth of it?” Morse’s eyes flitted behind Thursday to Lott’s desk, empty for hours. His sergeant, the rest of major crimes had gone home for the night. All but Thursday, and his spirit. “The truth is your men are either incompetent or corrupt, and we both know which. All three dead men had former arrests, ties to illegal activities that weren’t picked up in these files. It took me less than an hour to dig them out of the file room. Whoever compiled the files had to be blind or complicit. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“I knew it already. I need more. These aren’t accidents, they’re retribution. Who by? What for?”

Morse shifted his weight, hands slipping into his pockets. “That will take more time.”

“You have it. I can’t be seen to be sniffing round; that’ll set off alarm bells. But a green DC going over files and staying late? That looks to be simple brown-nosing.”

In the poor light, he thought he saw the shadow of a smile pass over Morse’s face. “And if I find something?”

“You bring it to me,” said Thursday with finality. 

“And you’ll take care of it?” Morse’s tone had a note of scepticism to it. He slipped back to lean his weight up against the desk, eyes glinting in a strip of light that filtered through the window in Thursday’s office. 

“I’m tired of all this muck on my patch. It needs clearing out.”

Morse nodded slowly. “Alright.”

Thursday let some of the tension drain from his shoulders, like water passing through a lock. “You can kip in my office; couch isn’t much, but it should do you for now.”

“I don’t sleep.” Morse slipped his hand from his pocket to run through his hair; for an instant Thursday thought he caught the scent of the river in the summer – water, reeds and the mealy smell of sunshine on old wood. 

“We’ll you’d better start; you can’t be haunting the office at all hours of the night or night shift’ll pick up on it. Besides, what were you about down in the basement when I found you?” he added, eyebrows rising gently in enquiry.

Morse shrugged, hand slipping down to take hold of the opposite elbow. “I was waiting.” 

“What for?”

“Reprieve.” 

In the stillness of the office, the word carried weight. Morse stood, unmoving, watching him with gleaming eyes. 

“I’m not here to judge you, Morse. I told you: so far as I’m concerned if you’re not dangerous there’s no reason to keep you locked up like an animal.” That, he had seen before. In North Africa: captured men locked in tiny cells with yellowed stone walls and a thick reek of bodily voidings. Captured Nightmares wrapped in straightjackets with iron bridles holding back fangs and screams, tossed into dark corners and forgotten.

There had been none of that darkness in the basement. But it had reminded Thursday of nothing else so strongly, of a man cut off not only from freedom but dignity. The heart and soul of Oxford, ancient and beautiful, locked away to rot in the basement of a grungy Cowley basement. 

“I’m only dangerous to those who harm the city,” said Morse in a low tone. Despite his narrow frame and sensitive hands, Thursday believed him. Genii loci had no taste for violence, but they abhorred harm to their homes. They could be cunning as foxes and fierce as tigers when the mood took them, when their nature drove them to it. 

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow. Mind you don’t stay out here all night.”

There was no answer, but Morse dipped his head in acquiescence. 

\----------------------------------------------------

When Thursday came in the next morning he found the lad in his office, staring out at the city beyond the window, still as a statue. Thursday strongly suspected he’d been there for hours.


	3. Corners of Cowley

“Morning,” said Thursday, as he shrugged out of his coat and plucked his hat off to hang both on the stand; it tipped drunkenly under their weight towards the centre of the room. Morse turned his head to look over his shoulder, catching Thursday’s eye. There was no sign of tiredness in his face; his eyes were bright with the reflection of the sunlight streaming down over the motor pool and his skin was unlined. “Anything new?”

Morse turned, reaching up to run a thumb along the long line of his jaw. It was cold in the office, the boiler unrepaired, but he showed no sign of feeling it. “No. Not yet. The forensics reports are sparse.” 

“Probably weren’t when they arrived; things have a funny way of disappearing ‘round here. I can phone through for another copy.” He rounded his desk and took a seat in his chair while Morse drifted around to stand on the other side. “Anything else?” 

Morse shook his head, eyes slipping back to the window. The weather had come over clear after yesterday’s snowstorm, the sky a creamy yellow towards the horizon darkening to a pale blue overhead that dazzled. It reflected in the lad’s eyes as a strip of gold over blue.

“Then I’ll see you later.”

\--------------------------------------------------------

“These fires, Thursday; are you proposing not signing off on them?” Crisp sat behind his desk, morning sunlight filtering in through the window behind him to cast a sheen over his head. It did nothing to soften the dour look on his face. Thursday sat before him, weight settled comfortably in the leather-backed chair.

“Three deaths in a week? A bit much to be a coincidence, sir.”

“Arson’s found no concrete evidence to suggest otherwise.” The DCS left it as an open-ended statement, looking hard at Thursday, like an eagle watching for the tell-tale scrabble of movement below.

“They’ve not ruled it out, either. Bodies were too badly burnt for any kind of pathology save identification – could have been drugged, then lit up.”

“Without an accelerant?” replied Crisp, sharply, sitting up in his chair. His tie slipped to the side, a long crooked line down his front.

“There are them as don’t need it, sir,” pointed out Thursday. 

Crisp raised his eyebrows imperiously. “Are you suggesting a Firestarter?”

“Hasn’t been ruled out. They can be damned artistic. Could’ve set up our deaths, neat as ninepence.” He folded the fingers of his right hand into the palm of his left and cracked his knuckles. 

“Why go to all that trouble to wipe out a few bottom-feeders?”

Thursday canted his head to the side thoughtfully. “Can’t say as they were bottom-feeders. Not yet. Could be someone was holding a grudge.” 

“Surely that would have turned up by now?”

_Not if it were suppressed_ , was the obvious answer. One that wasn’t available to be made, not to a DCS who should – who doubtless _did_ know better. Thursday shrugged instead, as though shuffling off the weight of Crisp’s unanswerable question. “I’m not completely happy about it, sir. That’s all.”

“I don’t like inspectors wasting their time on wild goose chases, Thursday,” began Crisp, giving out a narrow look. The sun streamed in over his shoulders onto his desk, leaving there a neat silhouette of his terse frame.

“Certainly, sir. I’ve given it to a DC; one of the Carshall lot. He can do the digging and let me know if anything of importance turns up.” It was a neat compromise: send the most junior officer present haring off after non-existent evidence. He would turn up nothing in the wide course of his search, and no one would end up with their nose out of joint. 

Such, at least, was the implication. 

Crisp’s craggy face was suddenly split by a smile; he reached down, produced a cigar from a box on his desk and lighted it. “Good; that’ll do.”

Thursday nodded. “Yes, sir.”

\----------------------------------------------------------

Thursday spent the day working a new missing person’s case – a wife disappeared over the holidays after a falling out between relations, more likely a personal decision than anything untoward. Every now and then he looked out the window into the CID central office to see the straight line of Morse’s back at his desk, his head bowed and a pencil tucked away behind his ear. 

Thursday had spent time the previous evening mulling over his sympathy for the spirit – the unaccountable way he had immediately taken a stand on Morse’s behalf, in the face of any kind of likelihood of support from his superiors. 

It was the lad’s humanity, he decided now as he watched Morse reach up to tangle a hand in his forelock. The light from his lamp swept over the strong lines of his face, casting a rounded shadow in the hollow of his cheek and caressing the column of his neck. He didn’t resemble an age-old spirit of an ancient city, with the power and regality that Thursday imagined his status should convey. He was instead at turns impetuous, fearless, honest, and wistful. Out of the ordinary, surely, but not supernaturally so. Simply a lad who had taken a few kicks to the teeth and come up with his head bloody but unbowed. 

His train of thought was broken by afternoon tea. 

“Your bright lad’s taking his time ferreting around,” said Lott, as he ushered in the WPC bearing Thursday’s mug. Thursday thanked the woman and glanced back to Lott.

“Let him be, Arthur. If he digs up anything, it’ll be to the good of the nick. Or isn’t that so?”

“Of course, guv’nor. Just as you say,” replied Lott stiffly before slipping out. Thursday watched through the windows as he turned to give Morse a long glare before returning to his seat. 

Thursday sighed and pulled out his pipe.

\-----------------------------------------------------------

It was an hour later, the lingering aroma of pipe tobacco keeping the room cozy in spite of the chill. Thursday was beginning to consider calling it a day when a knock came on his door; he looked up to see Morse standing in the doorway. He nodded and Morse stepped in, closing the door behind him. 

“I think I’ve found something.” Morse came forward to stand in front of Thursday, long and lean and awkwardly unable to find something to do with his hands. He ran them down the sides of his trousers, then hooked his thumbs into his pockets. 

Thursday raised his eyebrows interrogatively and he stilled, chest rising with a breath he needed only to speak. 

“The men – all three of them – had ties to a nightclub: Queen of Hearts. Two had been arrested in raids of the premises, one had a matchbook from the club among his effects. I had to dig back a fair way in the records to find the second arrest; it could be just a coincidence…”

“But you don’t think so?” enquired Thursday, genuinely curious. 

Morse licked his lips, fingers tapping thoughtfully on his trousers. “I think two of them having ties to the club could be a coincidence. All three looks suspicious.”

“All right then.” Thursday pushed back his chair and stood. “Don’t suppose you have a coat?”

Morse straightened, eyes brightening as they flickered from Thursday to the window. “Then…?”

Thursday nodded, unlocking his desk drawer and picking up the gold coin from within to slot it into his jacket pocket. “We’re going out to see what’s what.”

\-------------------------------------------------------

The lad did not have a coat, it transpired. He followed Thursday down to the corridor leading to the motor pool in his dusty navy jacket and thin cotton shirt, while outside a thin layer of snow lay on the ground. He wouldn’t have given it a second thought, Thursday knew, but others would. And suspicion wasn’t something he could afford, not on the trail of bent coppers. 

“Come along here.” Thursday unthinkingly laid a hand on the lad’s shoulder to redirect him from the outer door and was hit by a wave of snow on old stone, sunlight pouring down honey-thick through stained glass windows, running water slipping past smooth wood. He took his hand off abruptly and Morse glanced over his shoulders, eyes crinkled in confused frustration. 

He wanted outside, yearned for the feel of cold air on his face and the smell of the city so deeply Thursday could feel it through the layers of his clothes. “Just be a minute,” he said, and led the way through the maze of back corridors and rooms to the box room that doubled as lost-and-found. 

Sifting through the clothes there they found first a moth-eaten grey sweater which Morse looked at in distaste, then a red corduroy jacket with metal buttons – more distaste – and finally at the bottom of the pile a light tan car coat. Morse took it, shook it out and slipped his hands into the pockets – empty – before pulling it on. “There,” he said, giving Thursday an ornery look. 

It was hardly a winter coat, but they wouldn’t find anything so expensive here, and it wasn’t as though Morse needed it. It had a cheapness to it, a skinflint look that suited Morse’s rumpled suit and scuffed shoes. It would do. 

“Alright,” agreed Thursday. He gave the brim of his hat a tug and headed out into the hall, down the corridor and to the heavy outer door. Pushed it open and stepped aside to let Morse out into the light. 

He came out slowly, like a wary fox nosing outside his den after the first snowfall of the year. He took one cautious step over the line from linoleum to cement, then another; as he did his eyes widened and his shoulders lifted, as though he was slipping out from under a tremendous weight. He lifted his jaw and took a deep breath – not because he had to, but because he wanted to, Thursday knew. To breathe in the city, the smell of winter and old brick and car fumes. 

Thursday walked slowly, sorting through the contents of his pockets – keys, change, money clip – as he went. The lad followed along in his own time, as though walking through a dream. Finally, as Thursday got into the Jag and slotted the key into the ignition, he caught up and opened the passenger door, ducking down to slip inside. He closed the door behind him and remained staring out the window as Thursday started the car and pulled out of the lot, turning left and heading south deeper into Cowley. 

“Where are we going?” asked Morse, craning his head backwards to look towards Oxford out the rear window. 

Thursday gave him an unimpressed glance. “Queen of Hearts; where did you imagine?”

“Oh, right. I just – right.”

“Unless you found out something else?”

Morse shook his head silently, a trace of sullenness about him. 

“Work first, lad,” said Thursday mildly, looking back to the road. The storefronts here were red brick covered by dirty awnings, the pavement uneven and shot through with cracks. Traces of yesterday’s snow lingered on the steeped roofs and in the gutters, now a dirty brown slush. 

“You want to watch yourself in there,” said Thursday as they pulled up outside the squat, deep building with a crooked Queen of Hearts painted on the wooden sign above the door. She leered down at them as they entered. 

Nightclubs in the day time were generally dirty, shabby affairs, and the same was true of the Queen of Hearts. Under the house lights its age showed: dusty curtains, dirty floors, scarred tables. Dirty mirrors behind the bar, cracked leather on the stools. The smell of sour beer and cigarette smoke. 

Thursday led the way in, Morse following more slowly behind. 

Seated at the bar with his back to the main entrance was a heavy-set man in a black and red silk waistcoat; he was comparing figures between two ledgers, pen in hand. 

“Hullo, Sid,” said Thursday in a low voice, watching as the man swivelled on his seat. Some of the colour went out of his ruddy cheeks and he slipped down off the stool with an oily shimmy, landing on his patent-leather shoes. He smiled; it was the unconvincing, sickly smile of a crook meeting a copper. 

“Fred; how’s tricks?”

“Just fine,” replied Thursday with false geniality. Morse came to a stop at his shoulder, staring vaguely in the direction of the stage – an unprepossessing riser lined with plush red curtains and backed by faded black drapes. Someone had left a microphone stand in the centre, a spike of silver in the darkness. “Come about some of your regulars. Douglas Eccles, Thomas Belmont, Harry Thurslow. Seen ‘em lately?”

“Naw, Fred, they ain’t none of ours. You know our regulars – bright upstanding members of society. Not the type to burn in their beds.”

“Just a coincidence that they were pinched here then, is it?”

Sid shrugged, sweat beginning to bead his hairline. His face was heavy and corpulent, his collar yellowed with years of soaking up the sweat that ran down his neck. “What can I say?”

“You can tell me what you know about them. Or I can come back during business hours.”

“Okay, they came in once or twice, spread a bit of bread around. Nothing big time; I don’t keep track of all the little fishes that pass through.”

“Anyone who would be keeping track of these particular minnows?” Thursday leaned forward, his shadow passing over Sid’s wet eyes. For a moment the two of them stood in silence. Sid broke first. 

“Teddy Samuels. Could be I heard his name mentioned lately. Heard he’s been doing a bit of house cleaning.”

“Contracts with a Firestarter for that, does he?” asked Thursday, with slow deliberateness. 

“I wouldn’t know about that,” replied Sid, shying back and running into his stool, which clattered on the wooden floor. “Teddy don’t come around here. Word gets around, ‘s all.”

“Fair enough.” Thursday turned to Morse, who now seemed to be reading the labels on the bottles behind the bar. “Come along; let’s get some fresh air.”

They turned and left.

\-----------------------------------------------------

“Teddy Samuels. Who’s he?”

“Oh, so you were listening,” replied Thursday flatly as they jogged across the road to the Jag’s sleek dark figure. “Technically, he runs a used car business. In fact, he has his finger in a fair number of pies, and half the brass in the county in his pocket. Gambling, girls, and illegal goods are his line.”

“Do you think he’s behind the fires?”

“I think he’s a jumped-up little toe rag,” said Thursday, turning the engine over and pulling out. “But it’s possible. He has his hooks into the CID, sure enough. Erasing wayward evidence would be simple.” 

He turned the car to run along Divinity; they passed the burnt-out husk of Harry Thurslow’s house, Morse staring out the window with wide eyes, hand tight on the armrest. They fell into silence for the rest of the short trip.

Teddy Samuel’s car dealership made full use of its corner lot; used Austins, Rovers and even a couple of Jags had been cleaned and buffed until they gleamed and parked out over grey concrete that had been carefully cleared of snow. In the setting January sun their shadows lay long and dark, pointing back towards a ramshackle building that housed offices as well as a maintenance bay. 

Thursday parked the car on the opposite side of the road and they crossed over, Thursday tucking his hands into his pockets against the cold as they went. His breath was white in the darkening day. 

Inside the draughty office it was scarcely warmer. Papers were scattered over desks and tacked up to a cork board on the wall and even the particleboard of the walls themselves. A blackboard had been mounted to the wall with names and tallies, and scribbled half-erased notes in the corners. There was a smell of naked metal and motor oil. 

A young man was sitting behind the tall counter that divided the small office space in two; he stood when Thursday entered, tweaking his jacket to lie straight. “May I help you?” he asked, with a honeyed smile. 

“Looking for Mr Samuels,” said Thursday, glancing around in apparent disinterest.

“I’m afraid he’s not in this afternoon. Business in Reading. Can I take a message?”

Thursday gave him a long look. “You can tell him Fred Thursday’s been asking after him. I’ll stop by another time.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thursday turned, caught Morse’s eye, and led the way out of the office. 

\---------------------------------------------------

“Not much forrader, are we?” asked Morse, as they slid back into the Jag’s red leather interior. Thursday rested his foot lightly on the brake, keys in his hand. 

Thursday slotted the key in and turned it slowly, the engine roaring to life. “We’ve a line of enquiry. It’s more than we had this time yesterday.”

Morse’s mouth turned down in a crooked frown; displeased with the progress of the day, or lack of it. He turned to trace a line in the condensation on his window, looking out into the now-dark evening. The street lamps were beginning to flicker to life, casting long pools of warm light down onto the streets below. 

“We’ve still some time yet before we’re due back,” offered Thursday; Morse’s head swivelled around like an owl’s, eyes wide and eager. “Where should we go?”

“Up the Broad,” replied Morse instantly, straightening. 

Thursday’s lips curled into a gentle smile and he slipped the car into gear, heading north towards Oxford.


	4. The Broad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2017!

Thursday parked beside Blackwell’s and switched off the engine. Morse opened the door slowly and stepped out; Thursday followed suit, pulling his coat more tightly around himself. 

Here, with the Sheldonian on one side and behind it the Bodleian, and Balliol College on the other, they were near the heart of Oxford. Morse crossed the street slowly with his arms partially upraised, as though seeing an old friend in the distance. He passed a hand over the stone of the ancient wall guarding the theatre, topped by its faceless Caesars, unworried by the light dusting of ice crystals. 

“Morse…”

The spirit turned to him, and the sight of his pure, ecstatic delight stole the words from Thursday’s throat. He was smiling from ear to ear, eyes crinkled with the strength of his joy. He seemed almost to gleam in the twilight, nearly wild with the thrill of his freedom. He looked nothing like the sad, dusty shadow he’d been in the basement; here was life at its fullest, full of brightness and vivaciousness. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he demanded, as though he was a proud parent speaking of a nearby offspring. 

“Aye, lad, that it is.”

Morse hurried on past the theatre and towards the Bodleian; Thursday was hard pressed to keep up as the spirit led him on an impromptu tour of the heart of the city, touching a stone wall here and a pillar there, as though to reacquaint himself with old memories. In the falling darkness, the collar around his neck began to glimmer a faint, translucent silver. It was, in Thursday’s eyes, a bitter reminder that this freedom was temporary, a short treat to be enjoyed before returning to… what? Incarceration? A life spent in Cowley Station’s brick-walled basement, without even a window?

No. He was sure now, surer than he’d been about almost anything in his storied career. Morse would keep his freedom. Someway, somehow. 

So he let the spirit drag him past the towering colleges and through ancient alleyways with cobble streets until darkness truly fell and the cold began to set in under his overcoat with icy teeth. 

“Morse,” he called, as the lad stepped out onto New and turned to face the north, and the cool breeze rolling down past Magdalen, “It’s time to be getting back.”

Morse turned back, eyes shuttered. His shoulders fell and he stood like a young rook, all awkward angles. 

“Come along. Tomorrow’s another day; we’ve plenty on our plates. You’ll be out again before you know it,” he added, when Morse failed to buck up. At last the spirit nodded; he slotted his hands into his pockets and came back to walk towards Thursday to return to the waiting car. 

To return to Cowley Station. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

“Gone for walkies, were we?” 

Thursday heard Lott before he saw him, Morse preceding him up the stairs into the office. He rounded the corner to find Morse standing stiff, staring at the sneering sergeant. 

“Time we were getting home, Arthur,” said Thursday mildly, breaking the tension in the air. Lott’s eyes flashed to him past Morse’s still figure and the sergeant inclined his head. 

“Right you are, sir.” He hurried past Thursday to fetch his coat. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, constable. Mind you don’t stay too late,” Thursday said, for the benefit of anyone listening. Morse gave him a desultory nod and headed back to his desk.

“Ready, guv’nor,” came Lott’s voice from behind him.

They turned and left together. 

\----------------------------------------------------------

Morse was at his desk working the next morning as though he’d never left it – perhaps he hadn’t. The car coat hung over the back of his chair, hem trailing on the lino floor. He turned to regard Thursday with impatient eyes, but when Thursday didn’t signal to him he swivelled slowly back and continued reading whatever was before him, the line of his back tight with eager energy. 

Half eight was a sight too early in the morning for car dealerships, and certainly for scum like Samuels. Thursday sat himself behind his desk and pulled over the morning’s paperwork; Samuels could wait until some of the shine wore off the day. 

\-----------------------------------------------------------

It was after his morning cup of tea that Thursday sailed out into the CID office. Morse leaned an elbow on the back of his chair and half-twisted his spine to catch his eye; Thursday nodded. He was up like a jack-rabbit, grabbing his coat and hurrying over. 

“Need something, sir?” asked Lott, standing.

“No, you’re alright. I’ll take Morse with me; he could do with an airing.”

Lott’s tight look suggested he agreed with the statement, but not the intention behind it. They left him behind all the same, Morse hurrying down the staircase to the back exit first, tripping lightly down the steps. He threw the door open while Thursday signed out the car, stepping out into the crisp day. 

Wisps of smoke rose from chimneys, painting grey trails against the cut-glass blue of the sky. It was colder than the day before; cold enough to snow, but there were no clouds in the sky. A flock of pigeons wheeled overhead, turning on a dime and shooting back towards Oxford. Morse watched them, head craned back, as he waited for Thursday to arrive with the keys. 

“Spend a good night?” asked Thursday politely as they got into the car; Morse returned it with a look that suggested he was being dim.

“Nights outside feel like starlight on cobbles and dew on the grass and the smell of candlewax. Nights in your office feel like dirty socks and cigarette ash,” he said, jaw cutting a displeased line. 

“What else have you known, then?” 

“I don’t _need_ anything but my freedom,” replied Morse, raising a hand to rest against the top of the door’s frame, “but I used to keep a small flat; somewhere for all the things that are necessary in the world of men: clothes, tables and chairs, a sink,” he spoke as though he personally couldn’t see the use of any of them.

“Would you like to again?”

“I’d _like_ my freedom.” He turned to Thursday, then glanced down. “Sorry. I know you’re doing your best by me.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s enough.” Thursday pulled the car up beside Teddy Samuel’s lot, tipping down his hat to shade his eyes. “Why don’t you stay here? Close enough, isn’t it?” he slipped the gold coin from his pocket. Morse nodded blandly. 

“But why –”

“Me and Teddy, we’ve got a history.” He opened the door and stepped out, closing it behind him. Morse stayed behind. 

\--------------------------------------------------------

Samuels was sitting behind his desk in his own private office when Thursday stepped in; he looked up from the ledger he was examining, his desk a mess of papers and carbon copies. In one corner of the office stood a tall lamp with a fringe; in the other stood a safe. 

“Teddy. Seems we’re due for a chat,” announced Thursday, his hands in his pockets. Samuels raised his eyebrows. 

“Oh yeah? What about?”

“These fires – heard you might have an interest in them.”

Samuels’ face was mercurial; it shifted from anticipatory to stormy in less than a second. “That ain’t on me. I got no cause to be lighting up some poor buggers in their own homes.”

“Not what I hear. And I know you’ve got the ear of some conveniently placed coppers: made it easy to sweep under the rug, I fancy.”

“Here, you can’t just come here and –”

Thursday’s fist flew out and caught him in the centre of his face, knocking him back into the safe. A stream of blood began to trickle from one nostril. “Here’s what I ‘can just.’ I can see you opening that safe and showing me whatever it is you’re holding to keep this investigation from turning up any leads on those poor sods who burned to death on your say so. Then I can see you giving them to me. And then, I can see you telling me where your Firestarter’s holed up. How’s that?”

Samuels opened his mouth, and Thursday raised his fist again. With a black look, Samuels turned and opened the safe, pulling out the heavy door with one hand and producing a handkerchief with the other to hold to his bloody nose. He produced a couple of brown envelopes from the interior, just as behind them a scuffle of footsteps announced a bystander. 

Thursday looked up to see Morse watching the scene, white-faced and stiff as a statue. He said nothing as Samuels handed the envelopes over to Thursday. 

“Mr Samuels here has just come over with a nosebleed. Told him to keep some pressure on it,” reported Thursday, standing. “And your friend?” he asked, looking back to Samuels, who was pushing himself up only to slump down into his chair and drop his face into his hands. 

“Green building, corner of East and Morrel backing onto the park,” he said, without looking up, voice nasal and whinging.

“Ta.” Thursday turned, pocketing the evidence, and edging Morse out of the office. 

Outside the sun was shining, reflecting brightly off the windscreens of the parked cars. Morse threaded through them, unbuttoned coat whispering out behind him; Thursday followed. 

At the car he stood by the door without getting in, staring over the top with eyes tight against the sun. “I can walk back,” he said, face taught with bitten-down anger. 

“We’ve another trip to make still.”

“The bank?” Morse replied, facetiously, his eyes darting to Thursday’s pocket. 

Thursday sighed. “Get in.” He sat himself, pulling out the envelopes and splitting one open. He took a peek at the photos inside as Morse slowly opened the other door, felt the cold slivers of ice cutting in against his heart. The face he recognized. The body was one he ought never to have seen. 

“Here.” He offered the envelope across the seat to Morse, who pushed it away.

“I don’t want your money.” 

Thursday fought to keep from rolling his eyes. “I think you’ll be interested.”

Morse took a breath in just to huff, but slid his fingers into the end of the envelope and pushed it open. Looked in, briefly, then up and out the windscreen. His eyes were wide and ranging, as though looking for something to focus on other than what was in his hand. The envelope he pinched closed and handed back to Thursday. “Who is it?”

“Mr Crisp’s daughter. It’s a dirty, ugly thing, blackmail, but this…” He took the envelope and tucked it into his jacket pocket. “We take care of this, and we can watch these burn.”

“Where to?” Morse’s mouth was set in a hard line, eyes distant.

“East and Morrel.”

\----------------------------------------------------------

Most of the houses on Morrel were squat red brick constructions complete with fat brick fences, some overgrown by greenery that had taken on a silvery hue with the frosts. Where East Avenue met it in there was a tiny mint-green cube of a home, an eyesore to the well-kept houses on either side. 

Thursday parked in the street and they approached the black door together, Thursday’s jacket undone to give him quicker access to the lightning rod beneath. He rang the doorbell and they stood in the porch, waiting. No answer.

“What now?” asked Morse. Thursday reached out and tried the door: open. 

“You can stay out here if you’d rather,” he allowed, looking into the unlit interior. 

“I’m not the one who needs to worry,” replied Morse. He followed Thursday inside. 

The doorway opened directly into a sitting room, occupied by a wicker-backed loveseat and an orange floral-upholstered easy chair. On a sideboard behind them was a record player and LPs; above them on the wall hung a pair of unprepossessing oil paintings of ships at sea, one consumed by flames. 

Thursday strode further into the house. There was a tiny kitchen and a yellowing laminate-floored dining area. On the opposite side of the house was one bedroom with a double bed listing slightly to one side on uneven legs, its bedding in a tangle atop the mattress. Crammed into the back was a partially unfinished bathroom with one dingy lightbulb and a tarnished mirror. 

The house was cramped, dirty, and with a lingering smell of burnt paper. Most importantly, it was empty.

In the hall between the bedroom and bathroom stood a green wooden door, the paint flecking off near the bottom. Thursday glanced at Morse, standing watchfully behind him, and opened the door. It led down a flight of stairs. Pulling his rod out into his hand, he opened the door fully and reached in for the light switch; there was none. 

“Switch must be at the bottom,” he said in a low tone; Morse nodded. He took the lead, descending a flight of shaky wooden stairs. As he reached the bottom he ran his hand along the concrete wall looking for the light switch, Morse’s feet light on the steps behind him. 

“Looking for someone?” asked a voice out of the darkness. 

Then the world caught fire.


	5. Basement to Basement

Thursday reared back instinctively from the flames, leaping backwards up the stairs and slamming into Morse. The basement was awash in a roaring ring of fire, its centre in the middle of the room, the hungry threads of flame rushing past the walls in bright reds and golds. In an instant the basement was oven hot, hot enough that Thursday could feel his skin singing as he tried to fall backwards. 

“DI Thursday, Oxford City Police,” he shouted above the howling fire, snapping out the lightning rod to its full length. The iron gleamed dully in the firelight. Murder of a policeman was a capital crime; it was one of the few impediments to Nightmares slaughtering coppers. “Reign in the fire, or I put you down.”

Behind him he heard a _whoomp_ as the super-heated fire caught hold of something to burn and it went up like straw. 

In the centre of the flaming ring stood a figure, too hidden behind the blinding ribbons of fire for Thursday to make out clearly. He caught a hint of long, blond hair and a dirty skirt, both being fanned outwards by the heated air. A woman. 

Sweat was soaking through his clothes; the heat was drying him out from the inside, his lungs scorched and papery. The air was thickening with smoke, Thursday’s eyes watering from it. 

He could feel Morse behind him, the solidity of limestone walls, of ramparts and towers. He instinctively fell back behind him, the animal hind-part of his brain fleeing the fires into the lee of strength. He took one step further, heard Morse cry out, and fell clean through the burning boards of the stairs. 

Thursday hit the floor hard, heavy wooden beams slicing through the smoky air to land with an agonizing crack on his shoulder, head smacking back against the cement wall of the basement. He struggled heavily to stand and a searing wave of pain told him something was badly wrong with his left arm. He looked and saw the fire eating its way up his overcoat’s sleeve, flames flickering high on the rough wool. 

Shrugging out of the coat was agony; his shoulder was badly hurt, either broken or dislocated, and his forearm was burning. His head spun dizzingly as he tore at his flaming clothes, stomach heaving with the pain and the seesaw motion of the world. He dumped the coat onto the floor and heaped it over itself to smother the flames, but the ring of fire was drawing closer now and as he looked up he could see the woman in its centre smiling. 

The air down here was hotter; hot enough to kill, to burn the life right out of him. He drooped back against the wall, trying desperately to suck in air fit to breathe, his head spinning fiercely. The lightning rod was no longer in his hand, he had lost it in the fall.

Something flickered through the room, the smell of greenwood and water running over stones. A figure dropped down in front of him, shading him from the brightest flames. The sensation of running water grew stronger, from the trickle of a summer stream to a rushing winter river, swelled with rain and snowmelt. Then stronger, until it filled the whole of the room and Thursday was pushing himself backwards no longer to avoid the flames, which were dying back, but the pounding of water down over weirs, circling like a whirlpool to suck the air from the room and leave only an infinite coldness. Thursday shivered as the fires fell back further, dimming to sparks, and then to nothing. The waters pressed in, icy and torrential, slamming through the tiny space and washing away the heat. 

His head felt like it was splitting, stomach twining nausea with the pain. The cloth of his suit had melted over his forearm; he could feel the skin beneath blistering. The wall, he realised with a dull kind of insight, was the only thing holding him up. 

“Please,” gasped the Firestarter, on her knees in front of Morse. The ring of fire was gone, although smaller flames still licked at the room’s sparse furniture, throwing a flickering light over the proceedings. 

Morse looked back to Thursday, eyes blue as the sea, then turned to the Firestarter. “Run,” he suggested. Slowly the sensation of water receded, until Thursday found himself in a dry basement smelling of burnt wood and ash. The world was blurred at the edges, colours bleeding together.

She took one terrified look at Morse, picked up her skirts, and ran.

Morse turned back to Thursday; the last thing the inspector saw before he passed out was the lad’s pale face hovering before him. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------

Thursday woke up in hospital. 

He lay still for a moment, blearily conscious of the fact that he wasn’t where he ought to be. Instead of the smell of smoke and ashes there was the clean scent of over-laundered sheets and polished floors. Conversations were being carried out in hushed tones somewhere nearby; in the distance there was the neat clipping of heels on linoleum. 

The world was pressing in with a dull sensation of pressure rather than the pain he remembered. His left arm felt heavy and stiff; his head ached blandly. 

“Fred!”

He turned his head to see Win sitting at his side, her knitting in her lap. She reached out and squeezed his right hand; her fingers were soft and warm. He could smell her perfume over the colder antiseptic smell of the hospital, sweet and reassuring. “What happened?”

“You’ve been in the wars,” she answered, with a watery smile. “Broke your collarbone and burnt your arm, not to mention a nice concussion to round it all off with. A fire, Mr Crisp said. He was here before, but you were out cold.” 

Thursday tried to sit up; the room lurched and the dull pressure in his shoulder became a stabbing pain. He fell back, eyes sliding closed. His breath was coming in deep gulps, his face sticky with sweat. “Where’s Morse, pet?” he asked, forcing his eyes open. 

“That shy lad who looked in need of a few good meals?” 

“That’s him.” He made a second effort at sitting up, this time with Win’s aid, and managed to prop himself up higher on his pillows with a wince. “Where is he?”

“Mr Crisp took him back to the station. He was here waiting for you when I arrived, looking rather lost and alone – and sweetly worried about you. The doctors had you in surgery to fix up that collarbone of yours; wasn’t more than a tweak according to the surgeon. He found me a chair and went off and fetched me a cup of tea. Then Mr Crisp and Arthur showed up and it all got rather tense but you came out of surgery so I went along with you, and Arthur stopped by to say they would catch whoever had done it, and Mr Crisp and you were going back to the station. He stayed a while in case you woke up, but the doctor said it would be hours so he left too.”

“Tense how?” asked Thursday, eyes narrowing. 

Win’s mouth tightened for a moment while she thought, fingers running along the line of her needle. “It was as though Mr Crisp thought he oughtn’t to be here. He seemed genuinely shocked, and Morse just said ‘Well I’m here now,’ and Mr Crisp said something like ‘I’ll see to that,’ and then you came out and I didn’t hear any more of it.”

Thursday frowned. Morse hadn’t mentioned he knew Crisp, but then he hadn’t mentioned he hadn’t either, and he seemed the type to keep back anything that wasn’t dragged out of him.

“What did happen, Fred? Fred?” 

He blinked and looked over to her. “Ran afoul of a Firestarter. Never thought she’d be fool enough to set her own home alight, nor yet a DI. But she made a good show of it, until the lad put a stop to it.” Before letting her go, he thought darkly. 

“Oh.” Win sounded as though she had had the breath kicked out of her, her face tense, eyes worried. The line of her lips was very thin, and trembling. 

“It’s alright; I’m fine. Nothing to worry about. Don’t you go fretting yourself.”

“But Nightmares, Fred…”

He squeezed her hand. “We handled it. Got my bright young lad to thank for that. So soon as they let me out of here, you can bring him home for dinner and give him a good feeding. Right?”

She gave him a weak smile. “Right.”

\-------------------------------------------------------

Between the concussion and the surgical incisions, it was two days before Thursday was released. Lott came by to take his statement, including his somewhat fuzzy description of the renegade Firestarter. 

“Where’s Morse?” he asked, waiting until the end of the conversation and keeping his anxiety in check; it would do the lad no good to show it to Lott. 

“Back at the nick, sir. I think you know why. Turns out he’s got a little secret, that lad.” Lott smiled mirthlessly. 

“He saved my life,” replied Thursday, staunchly. 

“Mr Crisp’s seen him looked after,” replied Lott, which sounded ominous. But there was precious little he could do about it from a hospital bed.

His coat, he had found, had retained the blank envelopes full of photos, but lost the tether. 

A conversation with Crisp was indicated.

\-----------------------------------------------------

The afternoon he was released Win took him home in shirtsleeves, his arm in a tight sling. His coat and jacket were both ruined; his forearm was thick with bandages. Win had already bought him a new coat, dark wool stiff and slightly rough under his fingers; the suit would be a less urgent replacement. 

He stayed for lunch – ham and pea soup, thick and hearty, as a remedy to the hospital food he’d been subsisting on – but afterwards he stomped upstairs and pulled on one of his remaining suits, cursing as he struggled with his bad arm. 

“You’re not going in today,” said Win from the doorway behind him, only half a question. She sounded worried. Thursday looked at her in the mirror while knotting his tie. 

“Just to look in on Morse. Make sure everything’s shipshape. I’ll be back underfoot before you know it.” He turned and stooped to kiss her cheek, then brushed past her on his way down to the phone to call for a ride. 

When he had done that, he picked up his old coat and rummaged through its pockets, turning up the envelopes and transferring them to the deep, silk-lined pockets of the new before draping it over his shoulders. He could feel their weight on one side, burning a hole in his pocket. 

\------------------------------------------------------

The nick had moods, imperceptible to visitors but easily recognized by any copper worth the name. Slow days, busy days, days where they were rushed off their feet, days where it was best to find an excuse to be outside because serious bollocks was erupting inside.

Today was a lazy afternoon. The desk sergeant nodded vaguely at Thursday as he passed; PCs made way for him on the stairs, trooping up and down with no particular speed. Upstairs in the CID men were sitting back in their chairs, feet on desks, typing at intervals with one wandering finger. 

He trailed down the hallway past the CID secretary to Crisp’s office and knocked on the door. 

“Come in!”

Thursday stepped inside, closing the door behind him; Crisp straightened in his chair. He was in his shirtsleeves, heat pounding in from the steaming radiator behind him – obviously the boiler had been repaired in Thursday’s absence. 

“Sir.” He stood stiff-backed, already beginning to feel hot under his coat but unwilling to remove it. 

“Thursday. Perhaps you’d like to tell me what the hell you thought you were doing, setting loose a spirit who had been clearly restrained, not only acting solely on your own initiative but without informing me. And, as if that weren’t enough, I hear you’ve been perpetrating violence on members of the community!” Crisp’s face was reddening fast, eyes flinty.

“Not sure I’d call lowlifes like Samuels a member of the community, sir; more of a cockroach.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the envelopes, which he tossed onto the table in front of his superior. “Nasty thing, blackmail. That’s all of it – photos and negatives. You can burn the lot of it, and Janice won’t have to worry anymore.”

Crisp, suddenly silent, reached out a shaky hand to open one of the envelopes and glance inside. He closed it again and leant back.

For a minute there was just the sound of the steam hissing in the radiator, and the window humming in its sash with the wind. 

“Who else knows?” he asked, quietly, eyes still on his desk.

“Just me and Morse. He’s a good lad; it was him that picked up on the connection between the deaths. And I’d’ve been cinders by now if not for him. And,” he added, flatly, “he knows how to keep his mouth shut.”

Crisp’s mouth grew very thin.

“I’m afraid he does,” he replied, slowly.

“Sir?”

Crisp pulled out his drawer; from inside it he produced the key to a pair of iron handcuffs, a clunky piece of iron itself. He put it down on the desk. 

“I think you’d better bring him back up, Thursday. And perhaps… take him out to walk it off.”

He did glance up now, and in his face for a moment before he turned to look out the window, Thursday saw shame painted plain and loud. 

He swept up the key and pounded off for the basement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to wrap this up before the new series starts on Sunday; whether or not I make it is still TBD.


	6. Oxford

“Morse?”

Thursday’s voice echoed slightly in the large unfinished space as he threw open the door, turning on the lights and then running awkwardly down the stairs, left arm held tight to his chest. He swivelled at the bottom, cutting over past the disused furniture and boxed up rubbish to the alcove beside the boiler. 

Morse was lying on his side facing the corner; behind his back his hands had been bound together by the heavy, cumbersome iron cuffs. He didn’t move at the sound of Thursday’s voice, didn’t call out, didn’t twitch. Something tight and pulsing knotted in the inspector’s chest, encircled his heart and pulled, hard. 

As he got closer Thursday saw the full picture. Saw the bands of leather encircling the spirit’s head, tucked down under his unruly hair. 

Rage ignited like a drum of petrol put to a match, exploded upwards until it filled his world in a searing, furious inferno. The heat of the flames that had sent him to hospital were nothing to it – this was the kind of rage that loaded bullets into chambers and pulled the trigger. 

It hadn’t been enough to just throw him back down like a dog. No, they had decided to teach him a lesson. No good deed unpunished. Thursday’s good hand was clenched tight enough that he could feel the four lines of his fingernails against his palm, digging furrows in the war-hardened skin there. His instincts were screaming at him: go back upstairs, bring down violence on the whole crooked lot of them, end this now.

Instead, he forced himself to kneel.

“Hang on lad, I’m here.” Thursday handled the key with a hand made clumsy by rage, forced the key into its slot and yanked it around hard until the lock sprang open and he pulled the iron away from Morse’s wrists. They were dark with lethargic ichor, Morse’s lifeblood settled thick and heavy beneath the surface of his pale skin. 

Slowly, like the sun creeping over the horizon, Morse rolled over. Thursday tasted bile in the back of his throat at the sight of him – at the sight of the bridle. Thick, hardened leather crisscrossed over smooth skin to hold an iron bit in place to prevent speech. Left long enough the heavy weight of the iron could destroy teeth and damage bone. It had pulled the corners of Morse’s mouth back until they bled ichor like tar, giving him a gruesome smile. 

“Those goddamn sons of bitches,” snarled Thursday, hands already behind Morse’s head to rip open the buckles. Morse gagged as Thursday gently pulled the metal from his mouth. As soon as he had it free of Morse’s head he threw it away as hard as he could; it hit the far wall with a rattle and fell to the dusty floor. “Morse?”

The spirit turned onto his stomach, forearms flat on the ground as he tried to push himself up. His spine was bent like a cat’s, head low to the ground. He spat once; where the ichor met cardboard it melted through with a smell like ozone. 

“Morse?” Thursday tried again, more hesitantly this time. And then, “Crisp sent me to get you out.” _That bastard_ was implicit in the tone. 

Morse rolled his head to stare up past the vertical line of his arm. “Where’ve you been?” he gritted out, eyes bright with pain. 

“Hospital, lad.” _Dozing away, blissfully ignorant_. His shame tasted like ash, powdery and bitter. 

“For three days?” Morse croaked, as if incredulous at the fragility of men, and dropped his head back down. Then, lower: “I thought you’d never come.”

The knot in Thursday’s chest twisted tighter at that, but he kept his voice calm and even. Sent back the whipping fury; it would do no good here. Not now. 

“Came as soon as I could. C’mon, let’s get you up.” He took the handcuffs off the ground and used them to lever the tether out of the wall. It came away with a crumbling of mortar, and Thursday scooped it up. For an instant, his hand tracked towards his pocket. Then, instead, he reached out and tucked it into Morse’s. “I think you’d better keep that.”

He rested a hand on Morse’s shoulder, the touch coming with the now familiar flash of ringing bells and chestnuts smashing onto cobbles and blackbirds singing on old stone. “Let’s get you out of here.” He helped Morse to sit up, then pull himself to his feet. The spirit swayed unsteadily, raising a hand to pass over his brow. “Alright?” asked Thursday.

“Yes.” He steadied himself against Thursday’s shoulder, eyes stormy. “If you let me out, I won’t come back, ” he said, passing his thumb over the bruising at the corner of his mouth. 

“There’s other places you could turn to – places where you could do good, that’d treat you right. The University, perhaps, or the City,” replied Thursday, evenly. “I wouldn’t blame you.” And then, more quietly, “I told you I’d not wear your being tossed down here again like an animal, and I won’t.”

“Then take me out of here.” Morse pushed away to stand on his own, eyes bright even in the dimness. 

“I don’t suppose you can drive,” said Thursday, as they headed for the stairs.

Morse tilted his head slightly, affirmingly. “As it happens, I can.”

Memories of a happier time, wondered Thursday. But then they were at the stairs, and he stood back to let Morse up first.

\-------------------------------------------------------

Thursday had intended to take Morse home, but as soon as the lad got behind the wheel he pulled out of the lot without a word, turning the Jag’s nose towards Oxford. 

He took them up Cowley Road, past the golf course and the Methodist Church to Magdalen bridge, only to stop on the far side. He parked the car and got out, crossing the street to stand on the stone bridge over the Cherwell. He leant forwards, both hands resting on the stone wall, arms and back straight. Stared out at the river, and the town beyond, both grey under a blanket of clouds. Thursday came to stand behind him, turning up the collar of his coat. 

“Did you mean it?” Morse asked, eyes narrow against the biting wind. It ruffled his hair and tore at his coat as it whipped by him. “Working somewhere else?”

“You’re very valuable, Morse. Your knowledge, your insight. Right now, Mr Crisp’s in a bargaining mood. Might be a good time to effect a change. If that’s what you want.”

Morse’s eyes flashed to him. “You know what I want.”

“Freedom? That why you let the Firestarter go? Fellow feeling?” he asked, without reprobation.

“What? No. It takes iron to bind them, just like me. How could I have cuffed her? And you were in no shape to try. Your life seemed more important – or was I wrong?” he asked, with just a hint of mirth in his eyes.

Thursday smiled slowly. “You weren’t wrong, lad. And I haven’t thanked you.”

Morse shrugged, turning back to the river. “You still have to catch her.”

“We will.” That was a certainty. “I thought you could come home with me, meet the family. Rest up,” he said, tone pleasant.

“I don’t need rest.”

“Morse –”

“What you see – what you think I am – I’m not. I’m limestone and mortar and water flowing under bridges. I don’t need warmth or comfort or pity.” He spoke suddenly, straightening and turning to stand with his back to the side of the bridge, facing Thursday with snapping eyes.

Thursday looked at him, from his tussled unkempt hair to the ichor smeared at the corners of his mouth to his long, sensitive hands, currently fisted. “You may not be human; doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be treated as though you were,” he answered slowly. 

“You’re one of the few to think so.”

“Doesn’t make it any less true.” Thursday shuffled, the chill beginning to settle into his bones. “Will you come with me? Win’d be no end pleased.”

Morse smiled with his eyes rather than his torn mouth. “Thank you, but no. I have a lot to reacquaint myself with.” He turned, his eyes slipping over Magdalen tower and the spires beyond. 

Thursday pulled out his notebook, holding it awkwardly in his bandaged hand as he scribbled his address on it. “Here. Just in case.” He tore out the page and handed it to Morse.

“Thank you.”

\------------------------------------------------------

Driving back on his own was minor agony, but he hardly noticed in the face of his resurfacing rage. It poured through his veins like hot tar, scorching him from the inside out.

As he neared Cowley Station all the wrath, all the fury he had pushed back in the face of Morse’s abuse returned as his thoughts turned like a weathervane to the iron bridle and cuffs lying on the floor of the nick’s basement. His arm ached more urgently as his heartbeat grew stronger, faster, blood coursing in a hot river. 

It was long past time for a reckoning. 

\------------------------------------------------------

“Arthur,” said Thursday lightly, striding through the CID office. His bagman looked up, cigarette between his lips. “Step in for a moment, would you?”

He took the time to sit down. He was safer behind his desk – _Lott_ was safer with him behind his desk. He had called Samuels a jumped-up little toe-rag but what did that make Lott, who he tolerated like a leech, slowly sucking out the station’s lifeblood? A leech he had allowed to prosper right under his eyes, looking the other way for what? Seemliness? Politics? 

The past tasted of petrol, and he very suddenly wanted to burn it out. 

Lott stepped in, smoke rising in a blue column. “Sir?” 

“Close the door.” 

He waited for the click, then let the pleasantness drop from his face like a curtain. “Here’s how it is, Arthur. You’re getting on. Time to be thinking of the future. Early retirement. More time with Irene. It comes to all of us, and the easiest way is to face it head on.”

Lott’s face slowly hardened. “Fred?”

“Otherwise the gloves come off. You think I don’t know about the pony a month from Teddy Samuels? The blind eye you turn to Queen of Hearts? The scrapings you earn off the big boys’ tables? It stops here and now. I’m done playing the sleeping giant, Arthur: I’m awake now. And I _will_ end you, you cross me.” He leant back, eyes hard, and watched.

For a minute Lott stood still, cigarette slowly burning away. Then came indignation, and bluster. “You can’t think I –”

“No. You can’t think I will stand for it any longer. So you take your choice. Run Irene down to the caravan, have a chat about it. It’s your call; either way, I want you out of this nick.”

Lott scowled, yanked the door open and strode out, slamming it behind him. 

Thursday let out his breath in a slow sigh. Only when he had seen Lott disappear out the door of the CID office did he stand. He brushed his sling to lie straight, then came around his desk.

Still one thing more to do.

\-----------------------------------------------------

Crisp was sitting at his desk, staring at the wall. He had an open case file in front of him, and a pen by his elbow, but his eyes were focused for distance, thoughts clearly elsewhere. There was a scent of burnt paper in his office, a bitter, smoky smell. 

“Sir,” said Thursday, standing at his door, all coiled anger hidden under a sheet of ice. 

Crisp turned to him, blinking once. “Thursday. Where’s…”

“Morse? Gone. He won’t be back, not after what’s been visited on him.” Thursday stepped in and closed the door softly. “He could have been a real help,” he said, coming in a step and stopping, keeping to his feet. “Could have been far more use than a man, if he hadn’t been treated like a dog.”

“Secrets, Thursday,” replied Crisp in a slow, tense tone. “They can tear the heart right out of a man. Turn him weak, blind. Desperate. Twist him until he’s living off his nerves, until the wrong words makes him bring down a hammer like the wrath of God on the poor sod who set him off.” He passed a hand over his bald head, closed his eyes momentarily. “And by then, he’s no good to any man,” he bit out, looking back to Thursday. 

“Sir?”

“It’s time for a new broom here at Cowley Station, Thursday. I’m stepping down and putting you in for promotion, effective immediately. If you don’t want the post you can take it on on an acting basis; it’ll need confirmation from Kiddlington, anyhow. But with you at the reins, maybe you can effect the changes you want. God knows I never could.”

And like that the fire died out inside Thursday, disappearing and leaving a barren, hollow emptiness. “Might take a better man than me to make a difference, sir,” he said, stiffly. 

Crisp looked evenly back, voice even now, as though a weight had been lifted. “I suppose you’ll find out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue left to go.


	7. Epilogue: Home

_One week later_

Dinner was over. The rich smells of the celebratory steak and onions were still thick in the small house. The washing up had been done, sparkling plates and glasses returned neatly to their shelves. The children had gone upstairs, Joan to listen to her transistor and Sam to study; downstairs Win knitted in front of the telly with her feet up. 

Thursday was sitting at the dinner table with a brandy, reading through the work he’d brought home. First official day as acting DCS and already he was finding himself snowed under with paperwork. It didn’t much help that he had a vacant DI and DS position to fill, their caseload beginning to pile up intractably. 

He’d been there some time, brandy glass by his elbow slowly emptying, when the doorbell rang. Thursday stood, running a hand under his collar to pull it free of the constricting jumper. He stepped out into the hall, flicked on the porch light and opened the door. 

Standing on the doorstep was Morse, hands tucked into the pockets of the car coat he’d taken from Cowley Station, his hair a mess as ever and his tie askew. He didn’t seem to have suffered for a week spent out of doors – on the contrary he stood taller and more confident; there was colour in his cheeks for once. 

“Morse!” Thursday’s breath clouded in the frosty air, rising in a white haze.

“I heard congratulations were in order,” the spirit said with a soft smile, standing at the edge of the porchlight’s dim circle. In the half-darkness the collar at his neck, no longer tethered to anything, shone like moonlight on the river.

Thursday returned the smile with an wry one. “Remains to be seen. Never been one to be tied to a desk.”

“Maybe you can make the difference you hoped to from there. Clean out the rot, start anew,” suggested Morse.

Thursday canted his head to the side. “Maybe I can, if I find the right help. Still have to track down that Firestarter, for one.”

Morse raised an eyebrow, curious and questioning. “Are you recruiting?”

“They’ll always be a place for you, if you want it.”

Some of Morse’s amusement faded, leaving behind a sharp seriousness. “I think for now I need to take smaller steps. Walk before I run back into peril.” The bruises had faded from the corners of his mouth, but Thursday knew it would take far longer for the memory of them to fade. 

Thursday nodded. “Fair enough. Care to start by coming in? I’d be glad of any ideas you might have on cleaning up the nick.” He stood back to make way for Morse. 

For a minute Morse stared, considering. Then his smile returned – a slow, shy crook of his lips – and he stepped forward towards the light and warmth of Thursday’s home. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, lad. Anytime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Series 4!


End file.
